“Yes, well, the media always has a collective orgasm when successful executives go down hard, especially women.” Jerome stood up and walked over to his refrigerator. It was hidden inside a cabinet that blended perfectly with his bookcase. “Soda, dear?”
“Sure, anything.” Christy wondered how she was doing. Jerome wasn’t giving any hints as to whether he deemed her worthy of his services.
“I take it you walked away with a big cash settlement?”
“No, that’s the terrible part. My options were underwater when I walked out. After working so hard for so long, I left empty-handed.”
“Oh dear,” Jerome said. “Humpty Dumpty had a great fall, didn’t she?”
Christy sighed. “That’s an understatement.”
“So tell me, what needs to happen for your story to have a happy ending?” Jerome asked. His assistant handed her a glass of Pepsi.
Christy took a sip, stood, and walked to the window. An empty Food Emporium bag was dancing through the air as the wind blew it about sixty stories above the Manhattan sidewalks. That’s exactly how I feel, Christy thought. “I don’t have my footing anymore, Jerome. I just need a safe place to land, where I can create a new life that’s worth living. But I’m not sure a spin doctor like you can help me do that. Nothing personal. I appreciate your seeing me.”
“My dear,” Jerome said, “don’t you understand that for certain echelons in New York society, the unspun life isn’t worth living?”
“You think that applies to me?” Christy asked, walking back to her chair.
“You have been in the public eye your whole adult life,” Jerome said.
“I suppose I don’t want to completely disappear,” Christy said. “So how could you help me reinvent myself? I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
“Tell you what,” Jerome said. “Take a few moments and study my before-and-after book. It shows what my clients were known for before their downfall, what blew up in their life, and how we reframed them.”
Jerome handed Christy a thick leather binder. She placed it on her lap and began to peruse. Each page contained a photo of the client along with a brief sketch of their before and after personas.
Juliana Elena de Marichalar y de Borbón. Before: Thrice divorced, laughingstock heir to the Spanish Crown. After: writer, spokesperson for Chrysler, host of reality TV show.
Funkmaster Four-Four. Before: Rapper/Producer accused of masterminding the drive-by shooting of MC Two-Bit. After acquittal: Rapper/Producer, clothing designer.
Lizzie Kayan. Before: Publicly reviled mistress of the Speaker of the House. After: Handbag proprietor, memoirist.
Lolhanna Wentworth. Before: “It” girl, radical arsonist. After prison term: Author, socialite, motivational speaker.
Brooklyn Goldstein. Before: Rock star, heroin addict. After: Swimsuit designer, antidrug activist.
Alfred Silverglad. Before: Scion of Silverglad Enterprises, accused of rape. After acquittal: Congressional candidate. After election loss: Pundit on Meet the Press.
Baroness Claudia Von Frick. Before: Madam. After prison term: Author, manners and etiquette expert.
Christy looked up from the book. Jerome was talking on the phone to someone named Brittany. Or Britney? Could it be? She waited for him to end his call. “So this is supposed to give me ideas on how to reinvent myself.”
“Exactly,” Jerome said.
“I could design purses or swimwear, run for Congress, write a book, become a socialite, or host a reality TV show.”
“The possibilities are endless.”
“You know what I really want to do?” Christy said thoughtfully. “This may sound crazy, but I want to be as accomplished a wife and mother as I was an athlete.”
“And you want to write a book about that? Appear on Scottie Childs Live and Robert Beck telling working women everywhere what it’s like to go from being an important businesswoman to an anonymous wife and mother?”
“I do like the idea of being a voice for working women who choose to put family first. Although it wasn’t really my choice,” Christy said.
“Details, details. With my help, everyone will believe you left of your own accord. Yes, I like this. We’ll start with a profile in the Times, maybe Newsweek. I’ll get you a book deal. If things break as I plan, you can have your own reality show. Kind of like The Simple Life. Only your show will be about how a woman who has known only the world of business bumbles about as an inept wife and mother. We’ll film you botching your family’s Thanksgiving dinner, greeting your husband wearing Saran Wrap after he’s had a hard day, putting your foot in your mouth when you volunteer at your kid’s school. It’ll be hil-air-ious, heh-heh-heh.”
“I don’t want a reality show, Jerome.”
“Honey, everyone wants a reality show these days.”
“I don’t. Will you take me on anyway?” Christy asked.
“Yes, I believe I will, dear. My fee is fifteen thousand a month and I require a six-month retainer.”
“Thanks. I really am grateful to be working with you.” Christy felt a weight lift off her shoulders. With Jerome’s help, she would turn this disaster around.
“By the way, now that you aren’t employed, you need to be seen at the right places. I’m going to make sure you’re put on the guest list for Mimi Kimble’s power-girl salons.”
“What are those?”
“She invites only the most fabulous women in the city to lunch at her house. Usually there’s a speaker who talks about an important issue of the day. That’s followed by meaningful conversation among the guests. It’s like an old-fashioned salon. The most important women in media will be there. Get to know them. You’ll need their support when we go public with the new you.”
“Sounds exciting. Thanks.” The idea of being included with such a respected group of women was enticing.
“One more thing. Can you put on about ten, fifteen pounds?”
“No way. Why would you ask me to do that?”
“The public is more sympathetic to plump girls. That’s why it was easy to generate good feelings about Lizzie Kayan, but that goddamn bag of bones Claudia Von Frick was near impossible.”
“I have no sympathy for Baronness Von Frick,” Christy
